


Castles out of sand

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 1940s mafia au, M/M, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, eventual, historical accuracy what art thou, random Italy NT cameos, the godfather-inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you leave the family, you know what you will lose, but not what you will gain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/gifts).



> Who writes the best Pirlo/Monto. I hope you'll like it, or at least, not find it cringe-worthy among all your amazing interpretations of this pairing

_October, 1939_

Gigi isn't behind the counter when Andrea steps through the front door of the Buffon family bakery. The dull jingle of the shopkeeper bell alerts his presence, but the only person to take notice is Mrs. Materazzi by the pastry display, averting her gaze momentarily from the cellar door to lift a thin gray eyebrow at Andrea, her eyes shimmering with elation.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Materazzi," Andrea greets. "Have you seen Gigi around?"

"In the cellar," the old woman responds eagerly, just as a loud thud and some undignified swearing escapes from the cracked door. "He caught the thief."

By the time Andrea rushed down the steps to his friend's aid, Gigi is already standing triumphantly over a diminutive shadow at the toe of his foot. It takes a moment for Andrea to realize it's a kid.

"Finally, after two fucking months." Gigi huffs, turning to Andrea and smiling to assure that everything is under control. A smudge of dirt high on his cheekbone is the only evidence that a struggle had taken place.

"Yeah?" Andrea barely recalls Gigi complaining about a thief problem at all. His eyes drop to the small prisoner whom his friend had constrained with a plaited rope and clumsy knots.

The kid shifts to glare at Andrea, his strikingly blue eyes flickering quietly beneath the dim cellar light—no fear, no remorse, just pure unadulterated contempt. He couldn't have been more than twelve years old—sweet-faced and fragile-looking despite the hint of starved, feral intelligence in his expression—his dark hair long, and curling, and unkempt around his pale forehead and cheeks. He could have been a girl, as much as Andrea is concerned.

"Where you going?" Andrea asks as Gigi pushes past him to the stairs, seemingly confident in leaving the kid all by himself.

"Gonna phone Pop," came the curt response. "He'll know what to do."

Andrea follows Gigi upstairs and leans against the counter as the baker's son turns the dials on the shop phone. Mrs. Materazzi huddles closer to them, her bag of selected pastries clasped tightly between white, bony fingers. She offers her suggested punishments for the bread thief, her frivolous commentary on thievery in general, and endless praise for Gigi's bravery in the end.

"He's just a kid," Andrea says. "Ten? Twelve? I don't know. Real young."

"That's still no excuse to steal from good, honest people," the old lady huffs. "You ought to tell his mother. That's what you ought to do."

"I don't remember seeing this kid." Andrea nudges Gigi just as the baker's son replaces the handset with a click. His old man never picked up.

"You can't expect to know every brat off the street, no matter how much you think your family owns this neighborhood," Gigi says more out of exasperation than insult, and Andrea lets it go, as always. They are friends—the oldest and closest of kind—and Andrea finds it even reassuring sometimes, that Gigi is not afraid to speak his mind around him despite his familial influence. Gigi would never have done the same if it had been Ivan at the doors of his bakeshop.

"Pop's no help, if he's not around." The baker's son scratches thoughtfully at the growing stubble under his chin. "What should we do? Call the police?"

"His mother." Mrs. Materazzi corrects. "Figure out who the _bambino_ belongs to. He has more reason to fear his mother than the police."

Gigi heaves a sigh but complies with the old woman's advice, leaving Andrea at the counter with his lone customer. Mrs. Materazzi clucks her tongue at Gigi's departing figure. She doesn't seem to mind the wait as long as there's gossip to circulate later. A few seconds of silence passes before she begins her usual pleasantries.

"How is your family, Andrea? Is your mother doing well?"

"Yes, she is." Andrea smiles, his politeness compensating for a degree of rigidity in his response. "Ma has a lot of free time, now that Silvia is in grade school. But she keeps herself busy with charity work for the hospital and schools."

"Of course, of course, we would be utterly lost without your mother." Mrs. Materazzi responds almost offhandedly. "And _Ivano_ , how is he?"

Andrea had an idea that their conversation would lead to Ivan—or _Ivano_ as the older generation refers to him. His brother had gained a notorious repute since his early adolescence, which only seems to precede him with his newly aquired freedom, now that schooling has officially been stricken from his daily routine. Any vandalized property, stolen cars, or seemingly meaningless acts of destruction can usually be traced back to him, although few have the courage to call him out on it.

"You know my youngest son Marco?" The old woman continues. "He went out with _Ivano_ and a few friends last night and didn't come home until morning. Do you know anything about that?"

Marco is four years older than Andrea and a close friend of Ivan since they were wrecking havoc in grade school. He normally wouldn't give Andrea the time of day, if Ivan weren't around.

"That's a question for my brother, I'm afraid," Andrea smiles curtly, just as a bellow of curses erupts from the cellar again, undoubtedly belonging to Gigi.

Andrea excuses himself before hurrying down the steps to the basement, only to find Gigi alone this time, with untied ropes at his feet.

~~

Andrea forgets to bring home the flat bread his mother had wanted, but a "tsk" and a shake of the head are all the reprimand he receives. Carlo is sitting at the kitchen table with a meatball sandwich on his plate, while mother prepares supper with Silvia hanging on her dress.

Andrea drops his backpack by an empty chair and spreads out his homework for the night. Business must be slows these days, he notes, considering Carlo has been loitering in the kitchen and eating their food more often than not in recent months.

Carlo Ancelotti has been his father's oldest friend since immigrating to the United States in the early 20s. They had both worked on the railroad before the Great Depression took away most of the jobs, but _aiutati che Dio t'aiuta_ , or the old saying goes—help yourself, and God will help you. And the Pirlo and Ancelotti families managed with less conventional means, before he two men started their wine business at the end of the economic slump. Andrea had been too young to remember such humble beginnings, but his family's wealth, influence, and their comfortable brownstone in lower Manhattan were all moderately new.

Growing up, Carlo had been a constant presence. He is godfather to Ivan but has a much more profound influence on Andrea, who is quieter, more patient, and displayed a greater degree of reserve. Andrea finds Carlo easier to talk to than his own father, whose frankness and overt charisma were only inherited by one of his sons. Andrea never doubted his father's love, but his favoritism towards Ivan is obvious—the chosen, decorated heir to the family business. On the bright side, it leaves Andrea with much more freedom with regards to his own life choices, without the burden of a legacy and the accompanying expectations. And he ought to consider himself fortunate too, to have Carlo to bridge those gaps from youth to adulthood, when his own father could not.

"Forgot the _Ciabatta_ , huh?" Carlo raises a prominent brow once Andrea has settled down.

"I'll get it after school tomorrow." Andrea shrugs, scribbling his name on the top of his math homework. "Gigi caught some kid stealing from his bakery, so we got distracted. It's no big deal. My mother already forgave me."

"So what you do about him?"

"The thief? Nothing. Mrs. Materazzi wanted us to call his family, but the kid got away before we got the chance."

"I don't think that would've solved much," Carlo says between bites of his sandwich, and Andrea halts in his writing, feeling somewhat caught out as if this went beyond simple bread thievery, and he hadn't realized.

"Why not?" He asks, sounding more petulant than intended.

"Bread. It's not something kids should worry about, is it?"

And Andrea understands, although it seems so obvious now that Carlo had put everything in perspective. He feels embarrassed not to have realized on his own.

"What should we have done, then?" Andrea asks, but Carlo merely shrugs.

"I don't have the answers to everything."

~~

Alberto Pirlo—whom so many refers to as the Don—isn't simply a wine distributor and connoisseur, Andrea knows that much at the age of sixteen. Carlo had once compared Don Pirlo to King Solomon, a revered leader known for his wisdom and sound judgment, whom people often approached with their problems and disputes. Andrea never really took the comparison to heart. He could hardly imagine his father as the bearded, robed figure portrayed in stained glass windows of churches—sword in one hand and infant in the other—threatening to cut the child in half so that the real mother would expose herself. But regardless of their levity, Carlo's stories do provide a temporarily satisfactory—albeit, shallow—explanation to all the _biscotti_ , vintage cheeses, and other gifts they received during birthdays and celebrations.

But Don Pirlo is not one to act alone. Carlo is his most trusted friend and business partner—his _consigliere_ —tasked with contributing advice and ensuring that their plans are without fail. Carlo never fails to emphasize the importance of a _consigliere._

Ivan will be the successor to the family business; there is little doubt over that. Ever since leaving school this year, he has been spending more and more time behind the closed doors of their father's study, during important meetings with Carlo and other business partners. Andrea would be lying if he said he didn't feel left out, but Carlo's encouragements hardly quell his nerves either.

"Every Don needs a good _consigliere_ , to offer some perspective and good sense."

Andrea points out that the last time Ivan had heeded to his advice was during grade school, when Andrea begged his brother not to shimmy down the fire escape to retrieve his fallen cap. And even then, the younger Pirlo doubts he himself had played any part in his brother's decision.

"He'd want one of his friends. Someone he'd actually listen to. Someone willing to talk business with him."

Carlo shrugs as he lights his cigar, unfazed by Andrea's skepticism as if he has all eternity to convince the younger man otherwise. "There are few outside of the family whom you can trust. It'll seem more important once both of you are older."

 

 

_November, 1939_

Gigi doesn't mention his thief problem again, and Andrea supposes lightning wouldn't strike the same place twice, at least not after it's been caught. He keeps an ear out for chatter among the grocers and shopkeepers, and while things do go missing now and then, it's not something to prompt any real sense of worrying.

Andrea takes alternate routes home from school—in a vague hope of finding the kid within the winding backstreets and hidden corners—and sometime he would catch rustle of newspaper or a dash of shadow in the edge of his vision, but it never amasses to anything beyond a stray alley cat or a sudden gust of wind.

Two more weeks pass before Andrea catches a real glimpse of the kid, on a mid-November afternoon just as the first hints of gray winter rolls in. Andrea has one foot off the curb when he hears muffled sob followed by a shrewish shrill. The grocer's wife has caught the young thief with an apple in his coat, stolen from the fruit displays before her store. She has a firm grip on his collar, and is in the process of hauling him inside for a proper condemnation, by the time Andrea rushes over from across the street.

"Mrs. Gattuso, wait!" He says, stilling the woman by the elbow. "I'm really sorry. He's with me."

"He's with _you_?" Mrs. Gattuso turns to him in a mixture of lingering rage and disbelief, her nostrils flaring. The kid looks up at Andrea too—concern only evident in his sharp, blue eyes. Regardless of pride or fear, he does not plead or call out.

Andrea puts on his most persuasive front. "He's my cousin's kid, from Italy. He doesn't know any better. And he doesn't speak English."

He looks pointedly to the kid, who makes an effort to snap his jaws shut.

"I can pay for whatever he took," Andrea insists. "Again, I'm really sorry about that."

Andrea takes the kid by the wrist—his grip firm enough to discourage any thoughts of escaping, but not overly so to cause discomfort. He buys enough apples to fill a bag, all the while making idle conversation with the now mollified Mrs. Gattuso, who also has a son belonging to Ivan's crew.

The kid stays quietly still during the entire transaction, eyes fixed resolutely to the toes of his worn boots. Andrea eventually leads them calmly out of the grocery store.

"I just want to talk to you, alright?" Andrea says as they approach the end of the block. "I'll give you your apple, if you promise not to run away."

The kid nods, and Andrea lets go.

He takes them to the courtyard behind the old church—open to the public but largely vacant due to the looming wither. Andrea sits down on a stone bench beneath a wind-stripped tree and taps on the spot next to him. The kid only hesitates momentarily before settling down, leaving a respectable distance between them.

"What's your name?" Andrea asks.

"Riccardo."

"Riccardo what?"

"Riccardo Montolivo."

Andrea hands him an apple—always begin with positive reinforcement with children, Carlo had taught him. The kid takes the fruit and keeps it tightly clasped in his small hands. He looks tired and starved, but he doesn't eat it then.

"Thank you," he says in a small voice—awkward, forced, but not disingenuous. "For helping me."

"You're welcome," Andrea responds tersely. "But I want you to do me a favor too. You've caused some trouble lately—with the baker and the grocer. They're both friends of mine, and I don't want you stealing from them anymore, alright?"

Riccardo doesn't respond. He hasn't looked Andrea in the eye since leaving the grocery shop.

"I want you to do this instead," Andrea continues regardless. "Next time you walk into the store, get what you need, but show it to the cashier. Tell them you're a friend of Andrea Pirlo—that's me—and I'll come around at the end of the day and pay for whatever it is."

Riccardo scrunches his nose as he processes those words, his expression almost scandalous as he turns to the older boy. " _What_?"

"Take just what you need—meaning food." Andrea elaborates. "And only from Buffon's bakery, or that grocery store we were just at. Anywhere else would be out of my way. Understand?"

Riccardo wrinkles his brows—blue eyes befuddled and lips parted in a wordless gape. "Why are you doing this?" He eventually decides, and Andrea simply shrugs.

"You're stealing because you're hungry. And that's not your fault."

The young boy thins his lips and looks away, bringing the apple to his mouth and taking an angry bite. It takes a moment for Andrea to realize he's crying—large, round tears rolling down his frost-chapped cheeks, snuffles infrequent and subdued as if he were embarrassed. Andrea decides the most sensible thing to do is to look away.

"You have any siblings?" He eventually asks, and the kid shakes his head. "Who do you live with?"

"My grandma."

"Just your grandma?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, take these to your grandma." Andrea hands Riccardo the bag of apples, before standing and stretching out his lower back. "I'll have a word with the baker and the grocer. Remember, no more stealing from my friends."

~~

For the waning days of the month, Andrea takes the same path home, first stopping at Gigi's and then by Mrs. Gattuso's grocery store. Riccardo never takes more than what Andrea deems reasonable—whether it's a loaf of bread, milk and eggs, sliced pastrami, or fresh fruits—and Andrea would pay the bills with a curt smile, despite the bemused looks he would receive from the shopkeepers. His wallet doesn't seem to mind the hit, considering the substantial allowance that accompanied his family's rise to wealth, much more than what an apathetic teenager would need.

"What's with you and that kid, anyway?" Gigi asks him one day, as he pays for the black olive bread for his mother, as well as the simpler _grissino_ Riccardo had taken. "I don't get it."

"There's not much to get." Andrea responds offhandedly. "I'm offering a solution to both his problem and yours."

He makes no effort in keeping his arrangements a secret, but his family finds out before any personal disclosure can be made. Evidently, Mrs. Gattuso had mentioned it in passing to his mother, who then brings the subject to the dinner table one day.

Andrea shrugs away the prodding questions and baffled looks, but the incredulous, "What possessed you to do that, son?" from his father makes his gut twist.

Riccardo was born in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn—he feels compelled to explain—to a German mother and an Italian father. Mr. Montolivo earned a living in construction before a tragic accident took away his life, and a year later, his poor wife died from illness and grief. Riccardo spent three months in an orphanage before his grandmother took him in, but what little money she made mending garments were spent on medication for her chronic heart disease. They didn't have enough money for food, so Riccardo stole from various shops in town, and he was good at it—extraordinarily so—managing for over a year and only getting caught twice.

Riccardo isn't a bad kid. He simply had no choice but to steal—to _survive_ —so Andrea resolved to help them the only way he knew how. He doesn't regret or doubt the correctness of his actions, but his father's response is enough to make even the most confident of men waver.

Don Pirlo laughs—actually _laughs_ —as if Andrea's decision had been nothing more than the whims of a fanciful child. Ivan laughs too, and so does Ma. Even Carlo lets out a soft chuckle, and Andrea feels betrayed. Wasn't it Carlo who brought this problem to light and challenged Andrea to find an appropriate solution? Hasn't this always been the way things worked between them?

Kindness is weak, emasculating. That is the message Andrea takes away from the dinner table. That night, he locks himself in his room under the pretense of doing homework and doesn't emerge until the next morning, when his mother is yelling for him to get ready for school.

 

 

_December, 1939_

"Hey."

Andrea yelps and clutches at his chest, because he was five when he moved out of the shared bedroom with Ivan, and the last thing he expects now, when he flips on his light switch of his room, is someone sitting at the foot of his bed, as if he belonged.

"Why are you— _How_ did you get in here?" Andrea manages, once his heart no onger threatened to burst out of his sternum.

"Through the window." Riccardo says. "I climbed up the tree."

"What about the— _guards_?" Andrea trails off, feeling ridiculous, because what upstanding American family would have guards around their home?

Riccardo shrugs. "They didn't see me. I'm good at it, getting around unnoticed."

That barely answers anything, and Andrea doesn't even know where to begin. He wonders whether he should be angry at the intrusion, or worried that some random street kid can so easily outwit his father's most trusted guards.

"I didn't want to come through the front," Riccardo elaborates after some consideration. "A lot of people are here, it seems."

"Well, it _is_ Christmas Eve." Andrea closes his door and leans against it, arms crossed. He can hear his mother and aunts rustling in the kitchen, the laughter and cries of small children playing downstairs, and the fervent conversation of family members he hardly sees, but undoubtedly welcomed to his home on this day. Riccardo swings his dangling leg over the bed, looking almost guilty. Andrea can't bring himself to be mad at the kid.

"Why are you here?" He asks.

"I want to give you something." Riccardo's eyes seem to brighten, as he digs into the patched pockets of his loosely fitting pants. He reveals a silver pocket watch dangling by a matching chain—the numbers on the face etched in black Roman numerals. It's not overtly fancy—something Andrea can easily find at a pawnshop or from a watch vendor—but he wouldn't expect Riccardo to have it, either.

"You stole that." Andrea states, and Riccardo says nothing to suggest otherwise. "I thought I told you not to steal."

"You said not to steal from your friends."

"I meant not to steal in general."

"Well, how am I supposed to know what you meant?" Riccardo looks at him petulantly, and it's cute in a completely frustrating way. "It's the only thing I took. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, that's all."

Andrea sighs, running a hand through the front of his hair. "You know you didn't have to get me anything." And he meant that for the groceries, for the food, because Riccardo's end of the bargain was that he wouldn't steal anymore, so there really was nothing left to repay.

"I know it was you," Riccardo says, and it's not what Andrea expects. "When Mr. Ancelotti and your brother knocked on our door and told grandma that she didn't have to worry about her medicine bills anymore."

His face must've not shown much, but Andrea is actually stoic with surprise. He had no idea about any of this, let alone orchestrated it in any way.

"So what does your family do, anyway?" Riccardo asks, and there is a glint in his eyes and a fleeting smile at his lips.

"We're wine sellers," Andrea says dryly.

"When grandma saw who it was at the door, she hugged me and started to cry. She was scared, and Mr. Ancelotti had to tell her not to be. It took a long time for her to believe him."

"So you thought sneaking into our house was a good idea, after that?" Andrea makes an effort to sound reproaching, but he knows it's a lost cause. He has spoiled the boy with kindness since the moment they met, and now, he must face the unfortunate consequences.

Riccardo laughs, and it's mesmerizing—the whimsical laughter of a child—and it makes Andrea feel old, much older than his sixteen years. He reluctantly accepts his impromptu gift, pocketing the watch and clipping the chain to the loops of his pants, just to please Riccardo.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" He asks, and Riccardo shrugs one shoulder.

"Nothing, really. Grandma's asleep. She does that a lot now, with her new medicine."

Andrea takes a moment's consideration, before ruffling Riccardo's wavy curls—an infantilizing gesture, which he knows the younger boy hates.

"Go to the bathroom and wash up. I'll try to find some clothes that would fit you. You're spending Christmas with us."

~~

The next morning, Andrea finds the street vendor from whom Riccardo had stolen the watch, and pays for his own Christmas present.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to find the balance between reading, writing, studying, and watching the world cup. I'm tortuously slow at updating, I know, but these chapters are long enough (at least to my not-so-lofty standards)
> 
> Anyway, thank you to all my readers. Enjoy, enjoy~ :-)

_July, 1941_

"No." Gigi says, barely breaking his stride as he refills the shelves with freshly baked breadsticks.

Andrea sags his shoulders and sighs. "Come on."

"Shouldn't have gotten a pet if you knew you were gonna leave. That's just irresponsible."

"Riccardo's not a _dog_." Andrea can tell that the nonchalant act is only half in jest. Gigi wants to prove a point, and Andrea has gotten it already, loud and clear. "Just hear me out. I'm not asking for a lot."

The baker's son leans his hip against the counter and makes a vague gesture of accord. Andrea doesn't need much more invitation than that.

"Let him work here. I know you could use the help."

Gigi snorts and turns away, and Andrea feels a twinge of annoyance at such dismissal. They were practically brothers growing up—their friendship decided before they were born, by parents who had endured the same struggles, solidifying their amity in mutual respect and generosity. Small favors shouldn't be so hard to come by, considering their immense history.

Andrea grabs Gigi's elbow and turns him around, demanding attention.

"Riccardo's a good kid," he says, "But he doesn't have a father, or a brother—he needs somebody. Somebody's got to be there for him to set him straight. If anything, do it for me. Keep him out of trouble. Teach him how to make an honest living. Can you do that, Gigi? Will you?"

Gigi crosses his arm, his eyes a strange mixture of pensive and sad. "Fine, only because you're my _fratello_. But it was supposed to be you, you know?"

"Yeah," Andrea says. "Yeah, I know."

~~

It had come subtly and gradually—Andrea's refusal of his family's great direction. Don Pirlo never asked much from his second son, but never once had he imagined the prospect of any of his children leaving the family.

After completing high school, Andrea was expected to return home, waiting in anticipation for the fateful day when Don Pirlo calls him to his study, to discuss his future role in the family business. For the first months or so, he would be given minor jobs alongside Ivan, and work under the mentorship of his father and Carlos. He would become a made man on his eighteenth birthday, the initiation completed with his involvement in his first execution.

Andrea would be great help to the family even if he would never lead. And when the time finally comes for the crown to be passed, at best, he would become Ivan's _consigliere_ and right hand man. And at worst, a trusted peripheral associate whom the family can count on during even the direst of times.

And during or after, Andrea was to marry a nice Italian girl from the neighborhood—loyal and compliant (the makings of a mobster's wife)—and they would move to an apartment at most two blocks away, paid for and protected by Don Pirlo and his men. Andrea will have sons to carry his name, daughters to run the households, and his children will perpetuate the family business as their birthright.

Andrea was good at making excuses—convincing himself that this was what he wanted, even though deep down inside, he knew it would never work. He found his father intimidating, his brother difficult to relate too, and himself too hopeful— _Americanized_ —to embrace his parents' family-centered ethos. Even Carlo felt distant at times, when answers came too easily without a moment's hesitation, while Andrea faced a constant struggle with every decision he made.

He wanted to imagine life beyond the compact Little Italies of New York, the crime wars that threatened to broil over every ten years, the rules he must dodge to sustain the family enterprise, and the mixture of fear and reverence that greeted him wherever he went. It had been a compilation of events and consequences that had driven Andrea away, but if he must deem one as the most significant, he would choose the night after Ivan had made his bones.

"Do you even know what that means?" Ivan said, back against the ceramic tiles of their shared bathroom, head between his knees. He had been vomiting in the toilet only moments ago. "To make bones. To hit somebody."

Andrea shook his head even though he had an idea. He was seventeen at the time, and Ivan twenty-one.

"We found the snitch, the _spione_ who had ratted to the _Mancini famiglia_ , so we took him to he harbor, and we—" Ivan choked back a sob, teeth sinking into the stretched whiteness of his knuckles. His tough, inhuman exterior was crumbling in a way that made Andrea more terrified than anything imaginable. "—don't tell Pop you found me like this. Don't say a word to anyone."

"I won't," Andrea said, his voice surprisingly calm considering the weakness at his knees. "You know I wont. You're my brother."

Andrea applied to Oxford the next day, and received his acceptance letter five months later. His desire to escape the family was gauchely concealed at best, And while Don Pirlo seethed over Andrea's refusal and disobedience, his response was steely and calm, in a way a stern king would be, when faced with the prospect of teaching his foolish son a lesson.

"If you leave the family, you know what you will lose, but not what you will gain."

~~

On the eve of Independence Day, Ivan coerces his way into an apartment complex by the harbor, leading a group of Italian boys onto the roof. They bring rockets, fireworks, and a few boxes of beer, making plenteous noise before the light show even begins. Riccardo is twelve by now, and Andrea supposes it's enough to be roped in, enough to be considered important.

"Hey, give me that," he says as he plucks a cigarette from the younger boy's lips, extinguishing the quiet yellow flame with the heel of his shoe. Riccardo must have gotten it from an older boy for a nickel or two. "Save it for when you're older, when you have real problems."

Riccardo pouts but hardly objects, and lets Andrea pull him to the fire escape, until they're both sitting with their feet dangling over the metal floor.

"You be good, okay?" Andrea says, his voice a stern whisper, because this feels as much private as it is important. "Don't steal, don't do anything reckless that'll make your grandma worry, and don't piss off Gigi too much. And if you need a place to stay—or help with anything at all—you can always come to my family, even without me."

"Why are you leaving?" Riccardo asks, and it's hopeful, even if he doesn't expect a real response.

"It's something I have to do. Something I want to do."

"Will you be gone for long?"

"Not too long."

"But you will come back though. And visit often?"

"Yeah."

The fireworks start, and Riccardo's attention is immediately diverted. "Andrea, look!" He circles his fingers around the older boy's wrist, pointing to the sky and laughing as the exploding lights reflect in his vibrant blue eyes.

Andrea smiles, threading a hand into Riccardo's ruffled curls. He wills his mind blank and takes in the moment—the colors and sounds celebrating the birth of a nation. The young boy's laughter is but an echo beneath the crackles and explosions, but his body against Andrea's feels warm, solid, and real.

And many years from now, Andrea will remember—the first time he had lied to Riccardo, made a promise without the intention of ever keeping it.

 

 

_April, 1945_

"What's the matter?"

Andrea looks warily from the dinner Deborah had prepared. If she had said anything prior to the inquiry, he must have missed it.

"You're awfully quiet, even for your standards." Deborah sets down her wine glass, red lipstick tinting its edge. "What's on your mind?"

"I received a letter this morning, from an old friend." Andrea chooses his words wisely. "Something came up, and I'll need to make a trip home in the next couple of months."

"Is your friend alright?" Deborah wrinkles her brows, and Andrea is quick to quell any worries.

"It's nothing like that. Just some business to take care of."

"Like what?"

"Business with the family. It's honestly not worth mentioning. I'll be back before you even notice, I promise."

"Is that right?" Deborah reaches for her glass once more, and there is a twinge of disappointment in her voice, nearly imperceptible. Andrea believes it's one of the reasons why they've lasted this long.

~~

They are alike in many ways—he and Deborah Roversi—both first generation Italian-Americans, both searching for something beyond the old familial ways. Deborah is the oldest daughter of seven, her mother widowed and remarried with three children from her second marriage. They managed with very little, and there was a great deal of pressure for Deborah to terminate education early, to assist the family in more meaningful ways. While Andrea left home to escape a high-class—albeit, criminal—way of life, for Deborah it was the dictated path of marriage, motherhood, and homemaking. She was accepted to Oxford's nursing program on a full scholarship, and works part time in the university café. Andrea finds her achievements admirable and her person charming. His own liberation feels simple—privileged—compared to hers.

Aimless and unsure of what he wanted, Andrea muddled through the first two years of university. Leaving the family business had been anything but easy, but now that he is finally overseas and on his own—with doors open in every direction, and opportunities at his fingertips—overwhelming would be an understatement. Andrea takes the necessary courses for his degree and thinks maybe business, or law, or _something_ that his family has a chance of accepting, something that won't banish him forever.

"Don't worry so much about what they'd think," Deborah had advised. "Do something you like. You've gotten this far already, you might as well."

Andrea dourly agrees. The only education that matters to his family is the kind received at the dinner table, from the mouth of one generation to the ears of the next. His college degree would mean very little.

Family is a touchy subject for both, but Andrea's caution is to such a level of extreme, that even Deborah finds it odd. She has allowed him the privacy for almost three years now, her patience understandably wearing. And as the end of their last semester approaches, Deborah has been hinting—with greater frequency and falling discretion—that she wants a proposal at the end of the year. How can anyone want to marry him, Andrea grimly thinks, without having even the slightest clue of his past?

The letter Andrea received this morning was from Carlo—the first from his old mentor in nearly a year. Inside the embroidered envelope was an invitation to his daughter's wedding, and it would be a dire insult to their friendship—as well as to Katia—if Andrea chooses not to attend.

He doesn't mention it to Deborah because surely, she would want to go, and neither of them is ready for such a monumental step in their relationship. Maybe someday, Andrea would love her. And someday, they would get married. But until then, until Andrea knows for certain that he can leave behind the bloodstained history of his family, everything hangs very much in a delicate balance.

 

 

_June, 1945_

The wedding reception—a grand _festa_ held in the Ancelotti family vineyard—welcomed hundreds of guests to its joyous gardens. Andrea, in his modest black suit and tie, watches on quietly as spirited couples—young and old—dance to the upbeat rhythm of strings and percussions. Other guests sit at long tables stacked with food and wine, encircling the wooden dance floor bedecked in flowers and ribbons. The Pirlo family is surely somewhere among the lively celebration, and while Andrea hasn't been actively avoiding them, he certainly has done little to catalyze their reunion.

Many old friends and acquaintances have greeted him upon arrival, all curt and polite and shallow in their inquiries, as if instructed to simply leave him be. After an hour of typical pleasantries, Andrea distances himself from the designated crowds, finding a shaded area beneath a large oak. He takes a moment to smoke a cigarette, pensively twirling his wine as he contemplates the most practical way of approaching his family, after four years of chosen alienation.

Gigi is the first to lure him from hiding, clapping Andrea on the back hard enough for him stagger forward. "Well, if it isn't the college boy," he greets—eyes a touch unfocused, smile too easy.

Andrea neatly balances his drink to avoid a glaring red blotch on his white linen shirt. "Hey, Buffon," he grins at his old friend.

"What're you doing all the way out here?" Gigi swings a heavy arm over his shoulder, and Andrea finds it incredible how his friend can be inebriated already, so early into the wedding reception. "Don't tell me you're too good for your old _fratelli_ now that you're some big shot with a degree. You gonna start speaking in some dandy English accent too?"

Andrea rolls his eyes. Gigi has not changed a bit—always crude and to the point.

"No, but I _am_ going to do this." He plucks the wine glass out of Gigi's pliant fingers, before tilting his head in the direction of the celebration. "Why don't we join the party?"

Andrea finds a vacant table in a distant corner of the garden, which he shares with Gigi, as the two friends catch up over antipasto and wine. Gigi tells him about a girl he has been seeing—Alena, the daughter of a Czechoslovakian carpenter—to which Andrea responds with arched brows.

"Not Italian?" He asks, and Gigi flashes a lopsided grin.

"You're not the only rebel around here."

Gigi shows him a photo from his wallet, of a dark-haired girl with a mellowed smile, and Andrea supposes that she is beautiful, perhaps enough to break tradition over. He then reluctantly reveals his relationship with Deborah, after Gigi threatens to set him up with every eager, young bridesmaid e can find.

"It's serious, then?" Gigi asks, and Andrea shrugs one shoulder.

"Serious enough."

"So where is she? Why didn't you bring her?"

"It's not exactly easy to explain what my family does," he says dryly, downing the last bit of his wine.

The chatter and noise takes a sudden drop in volume, as the band transitions to the slow, steady rhythm of a rustic Italian folksong. Andrea stretches his neck to look beyond the applauding crowd, to see Carlo Ancelotti taking the hand of his daughter Katia, gliding across the dance floor in the practiced steps of a waltz. Ivan is among the audience—surrounded by the same friends as childhood—and across the platform, at the tables reserved for the most important of guests, sits Don Pirlo and his wife and daughter.

"You'll have to find them sometime." Gigi gives him a knowing look, and it's the last thing Andrea needs to be reminded off—he thinks dourly—before digressing to the last excuse he would allow himself, to prolong the inevitable.

"Where's Riccardo? How is he?"

There's a hint of uncertainty in Gigi's expression, and Andrea doesn't think too much of it then. "He's here somewhere. Why don't you see for yourself?"

~~

"Goddamn it, Claudio! Are you drunk?" Riccardo sounds rather peevish as he grabs the young, blond waiter—the Marchisio boy, Andrea is soon able to place—by the shoulder, spinning him around.

"I'm fine." Claudio sounds equally annoyed as he shrugs away Riccardo's hand, although the hiccup and slight slurring betray his claim. "Christ, get off of my case."

"You know what—Just forget it." Riccardo takes the empty wine jug from him. "Go walk it off. Check out the parking lot and make sure everything's okay. And find Nocerino. He better not be harassing the bridesmaids again."

Claudio grumbles something inaudible but abides, slowly trudging his way in the direction of the gated entrance, fists in pockets.

"And keep yourself hydrated, asshole!" Riccardo calls after him and gets the middle finger for his effort.

Riccardo huffs indignantly as he tucks the glassware under one arm, running a free hand though the front of his hair—his natural curls straightened and slicked back from ample amount of mousse. He wears the same black vest and the absurdly ruffled powder-blue shirt as all the caterers, and Andrea thinks of course—on the day of an old-fashioned Italian wedding, where the baker gifts the cake, the butcher the spiced meats, and the bartender all the different assortments of liquor—the caterers would naturally be the young boys of the neighborhood, congratulating the happy couple with the best service imaginable.

"It's something I'll need to get used to," Andrea says as he approaches his unsuspecting friend. "You being at eye level."

Riccardo whips his head around, and it's unmistakable—the curious blue eyes, the delicately handsome features, only accentuated with age.

"Riccardo, Riccardo, look at you." Andrea threads his fingers into the young man's hair, his palms cupping the curves of his cheeks. Riccardo is sixteen if Andrea remembers correctly—still sweet-faced and boyish, not quite fully grown to his height. "You look ridiculous. What has Katia done to my _fratellino_?"

Riccardo snorts, but doesn't pull away from the touch. "Quit it," he says, redness rising to his cheeks. His voice has gotten deeper also, Andrea notes proudly. "You sound worse than _your_ mother."

Andrea slaps him affectionately on the side of his head before releasing him. "You've been good these years?"

"Yeah," Riccardo smiles demurely. "And you?"

"Good." Andrea nods. "Great. We have plenty to talk about, but you seem busy, so I won't hold you up."

"I'm actually—not too busy," Riccardo insists, but Andrea waves a dismissive hand.

"Do your job, and do it well. You're obviously the glue holding these young waiters together, and I don't want to be responsible for ruining Katia's wedding"

"Come on, Andrea."

"Tell you what." Andrea reaches forward to smooth a rebellious curl from Riccardo's forehead. "After the reception, once we're back in the city, why don't we go for a drive? Get ice cream, or something?"

Riccardo rolls his eyes—too old now, for ice cream, candy, or root beer floats—and Andrea supposes he should know better than to indulge in such fanciful thinking.

"Still, come find me once this is all over," he says as a parting condolence. "I've missed you, kid."

"Yeah." Riccardo's smile almost reaches his eyes. "I missed you too."

~~

Silvia, now twelve, is the first to spot Andrea detaching from the boisterous crowd. She runs to him in her frilly, pink gown, jumping into his arms with little warning. Andrea braces himself as she clings onto his shoulders, her weight much more significant than the last time he had held her. Ivan notices him next, shouting and waving elatedly as he clears a path from across the garden. He wraps Andrea in a bone-crushing hug, forcibly kissing him on the forehead.

"Where have you been?" He smiles—wide and genuine. "Ma and Pop have been asking for you all day."

"Just around—you know," Andrea answers noncommittally as Ivan leads them to the family table, where the solemn Don waits with his wife.

Mrs. Pirlo wastes little time with banalities, piling pasta onto a plate and handing it to Andrea before her son is even properly seated. She commences in her fussing, complaining in rural Italian about how thin Andrea has gotten—that England is no place for a good, Italian boy. Andrea greets his father curtly, who barely bats an eye in return, and that sums up the sad extend of their interaction, as Silvia and Ivan overwhelm Andrea with questions for the next hour and half.

His unexpected savior arrives in splendid white, with a silk purse full of money envelope tucked underneath an arm. Andrea promptly rises to meet Katia Ancelotti, kissing her on the cheek as she wraps her arm around her shoulders.

"Well, well, Andrea Pirlo," the happy bride teases. "My family vineyard. My wedding day. And you have the nerve to greet me last."

Andrea sags his shoulder in defeat, reaching into his jacket for his own envelope. "Perhaps, this can make up for my tragic mistake."

Katia swings her purse over her shoulder, opening the latch. "An envelope for a dance, that the deal."

Andrea smiles before taking her offered hand.

The guests clear the center as the bride steps onto the wooden platform with her new dance partner. The musicians restart the _Tarantella_ upon Katia's request, and Andrea—not so adept in folk dancing as the other young man—gives an adamant effort to keep up with the bride's dips and twirls. He sees the new groom seated beside his mother-in-law, watching the dance with vigilant eyes. Andrea keeps his moves simple, his gestures cordial, and his gaze resolutely above the bride's neckline.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Carlo maneuvering past the applauding crowd, pulling aside a waiter to have a private word with— _Riccardo_. Andrea feels his blood chill at the way Carlo rests his hand on Riccardo's shoulder, divulging detailed instructions in stern whispers—a regal and fatherly gesture, and something Andrea has seen far too often.

"You've been looking over my shoulder the entire time," Katia says, pursing her lips. "Am I boring you?"

"No, of course not." Andrea returns his attention to his dance partner, concealing his fluster with a smile. He dips Katia just as the mandolin players strum their final chord, looking up to find both Riccardo and Carlo already gone.

~~

By the time they return to the city, it is well past twilight. His mother had prepared his old room, even though Andrea—in a mad scramble to get to the wedding on time—had booked a hotel and dropped his one suitcase there immediately after his flight. He was in the middle of a chastising, for not relying on the family first and foremost, when he sees Riccardo waiting in the guest room—dressed in normal day clothes, his hair newly washed.

They take Ivan's Cadillac for a drive, and find themselves on an elevated clearance outside of the city, looking in. The night air is hot and sticky with impending rain, and it makes Andrea want to undo the top buttons of his shirt. He offers to take Riccardo somewhere more interesting after he smokes a cigarette, but the boy shakes his head, insisting on watching the city lights instead.

They exit the car, into dark stillness with only the calling song of cicadas filling the void. New York has its buildings illuminated, the bustling roads traversing the city like the veins of a large organisms. The two men observe in comfortable silence, as Andrea's cigarette shrinks with each inhale, glowing ashes falling to the toe of his shoe.

"I want to work for your family." Riccardo says without much of a preamble. He taps the blunt edge of his fingernails against the passenger door—a causal, boyish gesture meant to hide a nervous tic. Andrea drops his cigarette and rubs it out against the compressed dirt ground.

"You want to work for my family," he repeats, voice steady despite his barely contained disappointment. He feels angry, but he isn't exactly surprised.

"I'm only half Italian, but I have an Italian name, so Carlo says it's okay." Riccardo leans the small of his back against the Cadillac, his eyes resolutely fixed to the dying sparks at Andrea's feet. "Once I'm eighteen, I'll become a _soldato_. I'll be part of the family."

Andrea's gut twists at those words. "You don't even know what you're saying."

Riccardo's sad, angelic face appears ethereal in the light of the distant city. "I know what your family does." 

" _You_ know what my family does?" Andrea laughs, incredulous. " _I_ don't even know what they do."

"I'm not a kid anymore," Riccardo insists, and Andrea thinks it's the most foolish thing he has ever heard.

"All those years ago, I helped you so you wouldn't have to steal anymore. I didn't do it for you to become a murderer. To get murdered."

"It's the least I can do." Riccardo's words are barely audible, his eyes downcast and hidden. "For your family."

"For _my_ family?" Andrea feels his blood broil, his nails biting into the skin of his palms. "I was the one who found you. I was the one who loved you like a brother. There's nothing to be repaid between us, but I trusted you to do one thing for me. And you chose to betray my trust."

Andrea doesn't even realize he's yelling, until he sees those brilliant blue eyes flicker, delicate features wincing, as if those words dealt a physical blow. 

"My grandmother died." Riccardo's voice slips an octave. "She died, and you were gone. I didn't have anyone left. You said I can go to your family for anything and—What did you expect me to do?"

The silence afterwards hangs heavily between them, and Andrea feels his anger dissipate as quickly as it had came. His heart ached so badly in that moment, as Riccardo frustratingly wipes at the stray tear on his cheek—always so ashamed to be caught crying. Andrea walks over in heavy strides, wrapping his arms around Riccardo and tucking the boy's head to the juncture at his neck and shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," he says, kissing the hairline above Riccardo's temple.

"Don't be." Riccardo sniffles at his collar, and Andrea wants to say, shut up, because he is—for leaving, for lying, for everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be lovely <3


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